<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Statement of the People by Athina_Blaine</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894364">Statement of the People</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine'>Athina_Blaine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teacher AU, Time Travel AU, Tumblr drabbles, Whump, Wingfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:47:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're like colours, if colours hated me."</p><p>-</p><p>A collection of drabbles based on prompts from my tumblr page!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>270</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chilly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>Jon’s boot sunk deeper into the snow pile. He tried to stand, but the movement only succeeded in sinking him in further. He grimaced, body wracking with bone deep tremors.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That’s <em>cheating</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pulled his too-thin coat tighter around himself. His face had long since grown numb under the fierce, buffeting wind. It was starting to burn. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wasn’t <em>dressed </em>for this. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad. He wasn’t supposed to become this lost. He had taken his eyes off Basira for one moment and she had disappeared into the fog. The endless tundra stretched out all around him, forsaken and barren. Jon was alone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He had to keep going. But <em>where?</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Perhaps … if he just took a moment to catch his breath …</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He caught his eyelids sliding shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Bad. Don’t.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Don’t fall asleep.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Had to keep going. They had come to Norway for a reason. There <em>had </em>to be something here that could help them. Something that would keep him one step ahead of whatever Lukas or Elias were planning. It couldn’t have all been for nothing. He couldn’t have left Martin, alone, again, for <em>nothing.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He didn’t remember making the decision to lie down in the snow, but at least the wind didn’t cut him up as badly down here. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he slept, just for a little while. It had been so long since he’s rested …</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon let himself imagine. He imagined Martin sitting at his desk, talking to the tape recorder. His lips were twisted downwards, and Jon wished he could soothe them. He looked half-starved. Had he remembered to eat today?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Jon had lost the right to ask Martin if he’d remembered to eat. He’d lost the right to comfort him, soothe him, or have any place in Martin’s life at all. Not after all the things he’s said. All the things he’s done.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In his vision, Martin tilted up his head. The stress that lined his face had deepened. His eyes looked so tired and dull.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon awoke with a gasp. The snow had half-buried him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sucking in a deep, bracing breath, he forced himself onto his knees, biting his lip hard enough that his mouth filled with warm, coppery blood.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No, he might not have the right to be a part of Martin’s life, but he was. That was just a fact. And even though it seemed  he could do nothing but bring the man he loved pain and suffering, he’d at least do everything he could to keep him safe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That meant <em>not </em>getting buried underneath a fucking freak blizzard.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Jon?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The blinding wind was beginning to die down, and he could just barely make out a figure not too far away. Jon could have sunk to his knees in relief. Basira didn’t look nearly as pleased to see him, but he didn’t care.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>I’m sorry. Please wait just a little longer.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>I’m coming back to you. I promise.</em>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Nostalgic, Teacher AU</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon flipped the page of his book, not raising his eyes as he said, “You’re getting distracted again, Miss Abernathy.”</p><p></p><div class="">
  <p>With a squeak, Miss Abernathy threw her hands over her doodle. She then sighed.</p>
  <p>"Nobody said you <em>had </em>to do your homework during detention.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, but wouldn’t you rather not have to worry about it later?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Grumbling, Miss Abernathy pulled out her math workbook. Beside her, Miss Lionel giggled, then raised her hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Mr. Sims, have you ever gotten detention before?”</p>
  <p>Humming, Jon lowered his book.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Once. My old history teacher had gotten quite tired that I would read straight through his lectures and gave me Saturday detention. I also wasn’t allowed to bring my own books anymore, either.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You got detention for <em>reading </em>too much?” Miss Abernathy asked, incredulous, then turned and whispered to Miss Lionel, “<em>Nerd.</em>”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Had Jon been this sassy as a child? No wonder Mr. Jones had been so sick of him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I was arrested once, though.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The two girls straightened with a snap, eyes saucer-like.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It was during my first few months as a researcher. I was investigating a dairy farm and the owner didn’t seem to, ah, appreciate my temperament, and I couldn’t say I cared for his, either. Got a black eye for my troubles. Tim had to bail me out.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Who’s Tim?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon lowered his eyes down to his book.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Right. Of course.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He was one of my …” He hesitated, frowning. “My co-workers.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>I</em> want a black eye,” said Miss Abernathy said, earning two startled glances. “What? I just want to see how it feels.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Miss Lionel raised her fist. “Well, my brother taught me how to left hook, if you want to give it a whirl.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Need I remind you that you both are <em>already</em> in detention? You nearly gave Mrs. Richie a heart attack with your stunt.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They returned to their workbooks, grumbling lightly, and Jon resumed his book. He found he couldn’t concentrate on the words, however. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Tim, upon finding Jon alone and damp in his cell, had immediately taken a picture.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Future blackmail material acquired.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Would you just get me out of here?” Jon snapped. “Do you have </em>any <em>idea what goat milk feels like in your shoes?”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Would rather not. And don’t worry, Mr. Fussy-Britches, I already paid the bail. I cannot </em>wait<em> to tell the guys back home about this.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You will do no such thing."</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Oh, and I assume you’re just going to play off being doused in animal secretions and sporting a shiner as a workplace hazard?”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Jon mumbled curses under his breath as the guard unlocked and opened his cell, and he shouldered past Tim with a huff.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Tim laughed and followed him out.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Something squeezed Jon’s chest, both fond and pained in equal measures.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He turned the page.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Blushing, Pre-S1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>Martin had just entered the breakroom when a hand took hold of his shoulder and backed him into the wall with a thud. Tim leaned over him, propped on one elbow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And where do you think you’re going, gorgeous?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin’s face must have conveyed his bewilderment, because Tim sighed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Look, just, give it a second.” He glanced out of the corner of his eyes and then smirked. “So, what have you been up to lately?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin followed his stare, and his heart started fluttering when Jon entered the breakroom. “Um.” Jon was wearing a soft blue jumper today. It looked fetching. His eyes slid back to Tim. “Nothing?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pausing, Jon turned, then scowled at the sight of them pressed up against the wall.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Need I remind you this is a professional workplace environment?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Excuse me, but we’re on break,” Tim said, matching Jon’s huffy tone with such accuracy that Martin had to bite back a laugh. Jon rolled his eyes, grabbing a mug and flipping on the kettle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tim turned back to Martin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So, got any plans for the weekend? Because I’ve got this barbeque place I’ve been dying to show you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin tilted his head. Tim knew very well he and Jon were following up a case in Cardiff together. Before he could remind him, however, Jon interjected with a testy,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Martin’s already busy assisting me with the Newman case.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tim hummed, not acknowledging Jon at all. “I’m good with the owner, so I can swing us some free entrées.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Did you hear me?” Jon lowered his teacup with a clatter. “I <em>said—</em>”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, piss off, that case is easy. It’s not like you <em>need</em> help.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Martin, please inform Tim that <em>we</em> will be going to Cardiff this weekend <em>together</em>.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They were both looking at Martin now. Oh. As interesting as it was to watch this unfold, he should probably say something, right?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“S-sorry, Tim. Jon did ask first. Maybe next time?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Damn,” Tim said, grinning. “Oh, well.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And he turned out of the breakroom without another word. Jon crossed his arms.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well,” he said. “Thank you for remembering your promise.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No problem” said Martin, fascinated by the steadily darkening colour of Jon’s face. “But it’s not like I was going to say yes. I’ve actually been looking forward to this weekend.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon looked up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Really?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I mean, you know.” Oh, that was too much, wasn’t it? “Cardiff is supposed to be really beautiful.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon frowned, before carefully schooling his face to something more neutral. “I see. Yes, I suppose that’s true.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He turned out of the breakroom sharply, completely abandoning the tea he had been in the middle of making. Baffled, Martin followed him, only to nearly run into Tim leaning against the wall outside.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tim winked.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’ve gotta make them work sometimes for it, you know?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ha ha,” Martin said, deadpan. “You’re hilarious.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Clapping his shoulder, Tim smiled, before walking down the hall.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Safe from prying eyes, Martin allowed a small, pleased smile to curl his mouth.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nostalgic, Time Travel AU</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon stumbled through the doorway and whirled around, but his hands only met the wall.</p><p>“<em>Martin!</em>”</p><p>No response, and he swore. What was Helen playing at? They didn’t have <em>time </em>for this.</p><p>Although, he thought, with a tired sigh, that wasn’t entirely true, was it? They had all the time in the world, now.</p><p>Focus. He needed to get out of here and find Martin. Find him and make sure he was safe.</p><p>He turned around and froze.</p><p>Instead of more winding corridors and mirror mazes, he had ended up in a normal living room. There was a worn couch with a myriad of blankets facing a television propped in the corner. Sunlight, honest to god natural sunlight, poured through the windows, which revealed a grassy lawn and blue skies.</p><p>Approaching the couch, he gently touched the soft, purple blanket lying lengthwise on top. He recognized this blanket; it even had the tear from when he had worn it across his shoulders and tripped over a table leg. It was Martin’s. But this wasn’t Martin’s flat, or his own.</p><p>What <em>was </em>this place?</p><p>A table at the other end of the room caught his eye. It was topped with framed pictures and football trophies. He lifted one up, lips parting with soft surprise.</p><p>It was him and Martin. They were older, standing in front of what Jon recognized, with a pang, as the old theatre he himself had frequented as a child. There was a little girl with them. She was wearing a pink unicorn shirt and a bright smile.</p><p>Jon’s heart twisted, overwhelmed by the physical evidence of <em>everything </em>they had lost. The things they would never have.</p><p>“Hey, Dad’s already at the restaurant with the team, we’re going to be late—”</p><p>Jon whirled around. The girl, a teenager now, had frozen in the doorway, hands paused halfway through wrapping her hair in a ponytail. Her eyes were impossibly wide, and Jon felt like he was caught in a trap.</p><p>“Um, hello,” he said, and winced. But, slowly, she relaxed, lowering her hands.</p><p>“Yeah, how are you doing, um, Jon?”</p><p>Jon? Did he really insist on being called that? He shook his head at himself.</p><p>She cleared her throat, face reddening. “Anything I can … help you with?”</p><p>“No, I, uh, I think I’m okay.”</p><p>“You sure? I can make some tea, or …?”</p><p>She fidgeted with her fingers, impossibly awkward, and some of the tension drained out of his shoulders. He smiled.</p><p>“That’s alright.” Much as he craved the thought of staying in this world with natural sunlight and green grass unstained, he needed to find Martin. Then, a thought struck him, and it nearly overwhelmed him in its intensity. He held up the framed picture. </p><p>“Do you think … would it be okay if I took this?”</p><p>She glanced at the photograph, brows furrowed, and then she shrugged.</p><p>“I guess. It technically belongs to you, anyway.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>Sliding the photo out of its casing, he took great care as he slid it into his jacket pocket, desperate not to bend it. Then, the girl raised a hand, pointing to something behind him.</p><p>“I think that might be for you.”</p><p>He turned to see a door. It looked like any other door in the house, but he supposed she would know if it were out of place better than he would.</p><p>“Thank you,” he said. When he had one door on the handle, though, he paused.  “I hope we can see each other again.”</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, lips twisting. “Like with Dad at the restaurant, with the rest of the team. <em>Don’t </em>be late.”</p><p>He chuckled. “I’m afraid I have little control over that particular outcome.”</p><p>And he closed the door, and she was gone, along with the soft couch, the trophies, the lawn, and the photos.</p><p>Except for one.</p><p>He pulled it out of his pocket. Amazing, how this reality<em> must</em> be so far in the future, and they somehow looked younger. Softer, with untroubled smiles.</p><p>How often did the <em>other </em>one look at this photo, thinking back fondly to the day he took his family to the theatre? A hateful pang of jealousy twisted his chest, but it ebbed away, replaced by a quiet, mournful sadness.</p><p>He held the photo to his chest. Even though he <em>knew </em>it was foolish, he let himself wonder if perhaps, one day, this could become a fond memory for him, too.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Longing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>Martin tucked the files Peter wanted further under his arm. All supposedly crucial for helping Martin understand what was coming for them. Why couldn’t Peter retrieve the files himself? <em>You have two legs, don’t you?</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Peter just smiled and asked to have them before lunch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Well, Martin decided that that was a particular battle he wasn’t interested in picking. Especially, since there was at least one perk coming all the way down here.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Halfway back to his office, he slowed. Just a bit. Just enough to listen, for a short while. To soak in the sound of his voice. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It seemed a dangerous impulse to indulge, but it’s not like they were talking to each other or anything, you know? Peter couldn’t possibly have a problem with it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But, today, he couldn’t hear anything. He slowed even further, enough to stop. He sighed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon must have left again. Why didn't anyone <em>tell </em>him anything? They didn’t even turn off the lights, the bastards. Just because the proprietor of the building was working with an eldritch horror didn’t mean they had to be wasteful. With a huff, he turned into the head archivist’s office.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Jon hadn’t left, in fact. He was at his desk right now. Eyes closed. Snoring softly. Asleep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Usually, when people slept, their faces softened. They looked younger. But Jon’s face still held all the tension and stress he carried with him while he was awake. It seemed he couldn’t escape it all even in sleep, and Martin’s chest ached.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin shouldn’t be here. Even now, he could hear Peter’s warnings. You’ve come so <em>far</em>, Martin, do you really want to undo it all in a moment of weakness?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon twitched, hand tightening around the tape recorder. His glasses were digging into the side of his face. He was completely passed out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A force tugged Martin’s feet forward, until he was just in front of the desk. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. They weren’t talking to each other, right? He told himself that again and again as he reached forward to gently remove Jon’s glasses from his face, leaving them folded on the desk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon didn’t stir. The archives were cold and he was only wearing a thin jumper and vest today. His neck was twisted at an uncomfortable looking angle. Perhaps Martin could fetch the blanket and pillow from the saferoom? It would only take a second—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He can’t. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He <em>can’t</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Without a backwards glance, he hurried out of Jon’s office, clutching the files in his arms. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A pale chill slid back over him, more stark than before. The image of Jon, so uncomfortable and alone, lingered behind his eyelids, and a cold, dull knife carved out another piece of his chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He was beginning to see why Peter sent him to retrieve the files.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Eager</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>Even long after they left the dark, empty house, with it’s uncomfortable chairs and creeping fog, Martin could still feel it’s chill. He shivered and trembled with it, trying to hide it from Jon, even if he knew it was futile. Jon threw back concerned glance after concerned glance.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When they stopped for camp, Jon spoke.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What do you need from me?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nothing. I don’t …” He trailed off with a sigh, because that wasn’t quite right, was it? “Can we just … be together?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Of course.” Jon put a hand on his shoulder. “Is it … is this okay?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was pretty fantastic, actually. The heat of Jon’s hand seeped through his shirt and warmed his entire left side. Martin squirmed fully under Jon’s arm, and he sighed as the chill was soothed even further, if only partially. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon’s lips twisted upwards, but he said nothing. It was hard to get comfortable on the cold, stone ground, but Jon was soft, and <em>there</em>, and Martin found himself relaxing anyway. He tilted his head, his brushing the edge of Jon’s jaw, enjoying the small scrape of his stubble. Jon hummed, almost a purr.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They hadn’t gotten to do this much back at the cabin. This … being close together. Everything had been so new, and they had still been so frightened. Of the entities, of Elias, of what they meant to each other.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin had savored those early, casual touches. Jon brushing past him in the kitchen. Tapping his shoulder to get his attention. Their legs pressing against each other on the couch. Curling into each other under the bedsheets after a nightmare.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Just when it seemed like they were getting closer, though, eyes wandering, touches lingering, everything had fallen apart, and Jon had gone so far away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He was still <em>here</em>, of course. Physically. It was still Jon. But ... not all of him. Even during the times they could carve out a quiet place of this hellscape for themselves, Martin could see it in his eyes. The sadness. The guilt. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon held himself back, even as Martin drowned in his own longing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It just … wasn’t <em>fair</em>. Jon deserved sleepy morning kisses and someone to shampoo his hair while they were washing up, and Martin had wanted so desperately to give it to him, to shower him with half a decade’s worth of pent up affection, but he had been so <em>scared</em>. He had wanted things to unfold naturally, in their own time. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But then, time had run out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Overwhelmed, Martin tilted his head and kissed the corner of Jon’s mouth. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon straightened up, and Martin’s face became hot, chasing away the last of the chill.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“S-sorry,” he said, scrubbing the back of his head. “Got carried away.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon blinked. It was hard to read his expression. Martin had used to be rather good at it, he felt, but these days …</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But then a slow smile graced Jon’s face. Leaning in, he brushed his lips just over Martin’s. It was the most forward Jon had ever been and still the gesture was laced with hesitancy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin surged, tightening his fist in Jon’s jacket. He wanted this kiss to say everything he couldn’t put into words. His love, his regrets, the bitterness of everything that was taken away from them, his determination to set things right, so that, maybe, they could finally be happy.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When Jon pulled away, his lips were a little pink, and his eyes were sad, and Martin had the strange feeling that he’d been heard. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He rested his head on the soft comfort of Jon’s chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At least they got to have this.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Safe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>“I made some soup.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin lowered his book. Jon was standing in the doorway, smiling shyly and cradling a bowl of something piping hot. The sight made something squeeze Martin’s chest and he chuckled.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s a busted ankle, not a cold.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know. However, it’s still lunch time.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Placing his book on the end table, Martin held out his hands to which Jon, after walking around the bed, deposited the bowl, their fingers brushing. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It looked to be cream of mushroom. Martin’s favourite. He scooped up a spoonful and cooled it with a breath. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon took a seat at the corner of the bed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We’re out of heavy cream and chicken stock, so best to remember that for our next trip to the market.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin lifted a brow. How could they already be out of heavy cream? He had just bought some the other day. Then, the implication of the statement sunk in.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Did you make this?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well ...” Jon picked at his fraying sleeve. “I suppose the answer to that depends on how you like it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin’s heart swelled with affection. He brought the spoonful to his mouth and swallowed it down, smacking his lips, making a real show of considering it. Really, though, it could have tasted like a toxic sludge and Martin would still have found it delicious, because <em>Jon </em>had made it for <em>him. </em>Thankfully, though, it didn’t come to that.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This is really good,” said Martin, following the first spoonful with another.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Really? Not too garlicky?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t think there’s such a thing, to be honest.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I doubt that.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin hummed in lieu of an answer, downing the soup in earnest now. Jon had never taken an interest in cooking before, more comfortable with being directed around the kitchen by Martin. Maybe this could be the start of an illustrious career as a future head chef? Oh, just to see him for a moment wearing a poofy chef hat and apron. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What are you giggling about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, nothing important.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin scraped out the last of the soup before setting it on the end table, putting his hands in his lap with a contended sigh.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re going to spoil me, you know. I’m going to be expecting this sort of thing on a regular basis before too long.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I mean, I don’t mind. Cooking for you.” Jon stared down at his hands. “I’m just rubbish at it. That had been the third batch.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Ah. So that’s how they had run out of heavy cream. Martin smiled anyway.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’d love it if you cooked more often.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon returned his smile, soft and timid, before turning to Martin’s bandaged ankle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Mind if I take a look at that?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin gestured that he go right on ahead, and winced only a little when Jon gently cradled his heel and lifted it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It seems like the swelling has gone down,” said Jon as he unravelled the tight binding. Martin squirmed as feeling rushed through his foot, both pleasurable and painful in equal measures. Jon paused.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you okay?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fine.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you sure? It didn’t seem to hurt you this much yesterday.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin shrugged. Slowly, Jon thumbed the ball of Martin’s ankle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How’s that?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yep,” Martin said, face screwing up. “Definitely still broken.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Humming, Jon lowered his thumb, rubbing the area just underneath the fracture in slow, gentle circles. Mmm. Yes, he was enjoying this quite a bit more, now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Good?” Jon asked. “The swelling should go down if there’s ample circulation.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah …”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon continued to massage his ankle, digging into the tendons of his calf, until Martin had to fight to keep his eyes open. When Jon started to pull away, he grunted.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon blinked, and Martin’s face became hot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I mean, uh …” He cleared his throat. “I’d, um, really like it if you … kept going? Please?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon smiled.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Of course.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Settling more comfortably onto the bed, Jon pulled his other, uninjured leg into his lap. Martin sunk into the soft pillow, letting his eyes slide shut.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Fragile, Wing!Fic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>To call it a crash landing would be an understatement. When Jon landed, it was on his face, skin skidding across the pavement, smearing a five-foot-long trail of blood in his wake. His left wing spasmed, joint rubbing against its socket, and he bit down on his lip to keep from sobbing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Almost there. <em>Just a little further.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>One hand over the other, he dragged himself across the pavement until he reached the door of the flat. He lifted a hand, before hesitating.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Jon didn’t have time to go elsewhere.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He brought his fist down against the door in one solid knock before collapsing, knuckles sliding down the wood. <em>Please tell me you heard that. </em>He didn’t have the strength to knock again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But the door opened, and Jon could have cried in relief, even as Martin sucked in a sharp breath.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What the bleeding <em>fuck </em>happened to you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon would have answered, but then Martin took hold of his arm and tried to lift him, and pain flared all over his body.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sorry,” he said, grimacing. “I think walking might be beyond my capabilities right now.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Christ, your wing …"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin pulled until Jon was halfway standing, shouldering the rest of his weight as he dragged him further into the flat. When they reached his bedroom, Jon tried to pull away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your sheets …" </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin made a frustrated noise, pushing him further in.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t care about the <em>bed</em>, Jon.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Despite the heat of his words, Martin’s touch continued to be gentle as he laid him face down onto the mattress. It was soft and warm, and Jon realized with some guilt he must have woken Martin up. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then, Martin took hold of his left wing, and he cringed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This is bad,” Martin mumbled, fear bleeding through his tone. “<em>Why </em>didn’t you go to hospital?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Because Jon couldn’t stand the thought of being in a cold hospital, surrounded by strangers and still alone. That the nightmare of doctors slicing him open to find his insides brimming with eyeballs had kept him awake for months. A multitude of perfectly adequate excuses, but they all died on his tongue.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I wanted to see you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin, hand combing through his feathers, froze.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know Lukas— I know you don’t want to see me right now.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Martin didn’t respond. Before long, his hand continued their gentle ministrations, and Jon’s eyes fluttered.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I always want to see you. That’s the problem.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon took in a breath, convinced he had misheard him, but Martin was pulling away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think I can patch you up,” he said, standing. “At least until we get you to an <em>actual </em>doctor.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon experienced a brief flash of panic as Martin left the room, but it simmered down when he just as quickly returned with a medical kit. He brushed the tips of his fingers against the outermost feather, soothing away some of the tension still locked in Jon’s body.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Some of these need to go.” Martin’s voice was mournful as he touched one of the broken secondaries. “Ready?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon nodded, burying his face into the pillow, bracing himself for the pain. Martin was quick though, tweezing the unsalvageable feathers with a practiced ease. At least the primaries had remained undamaged. Still, it was bitter work, and by the time Martin finished, Jon was trembling, teeth digging into his bottom lip.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There,” Martin said, smoothing the remaining feathers back into place. Jon hummed, unclenching his jaw. Martin continued idly stroking his feathers, and he allowed his eyes to slide shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It had been so long since he felt like … this. Felt safe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m going to start splinting. Is that okay? Jon?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Jon had already drifted off.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>